A Mother's Love
by stargwynn
Summary: Mary made a deal long ago...with an ANGEL. Sam and Dean are two sides of the same coin, and just as a demon came to collect from Sammy, so will Dean be visited by an angel and forced into a duty he never commited to.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This story will mirror the episode "In the Beginning" for symmetry's sake and takes place soon after Dean discovers and rejects the destiny of being Michael's vessel.**

**Disclaimer: All credit goes to Kripke and crew**

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><p><em>Everything is determined, the beginning as well as the end, by forces over which we have no control. It is determined for the insect, as well as for the star. Human beings, vegetables, or cosmic dust, we all dance to a mysterious tune, intoned in the distance by an invisible piper. <em>

~Albert Einstein

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><p>Chap 1<p>

Red tinted light flashed, creating distorted images amidst the blackness of the pit. Dean gasped, whimpered and shrieked as the white-eyed Alastair did unthinkable, grotesque and unnatural things to his body. But these guttings were not the worst. The torture and mutilation of his body and mind was one thing; another was the pit of despair contained in his own soul. There was no escape. There was no goodness. There was no family, no love, no anything—just the never-ending void filled only with torment and despair. He found himself welcoming the touch of Alastair's knife. The sensations, however surreal, made him aware that he existed—at least in some form.

Decades of desolation drove Dean to welcome the bloody embrace bestowed by his torturer. He wept on Alastair's shoulder as he would on a loving brother. He breathed words of gratitude to the demon for his company.

"Third stage: distorted love," Alastair whispered softly into Dean's ear. The next step towards Dean's transformation from man to demon.

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><p>Dean awoke. He did not shout out. True terror does not provoke noise, but horrified silence. He lay in complete stillness and quiet while his cold, clammy skin dripped with sweat.<p>

"What were you dreaming about?"

Dean jerked around. Cas. Still fresh from the horrors of hell, Dean didn't comment on the angel's abrupt arrival, nor did he dare answer the question.

"What do you want, Cas?" Dean rubbed his face with his hand, which trembled imperceptibly.

"I told you, God commanded you be raised from the pit for a purpose."

Dean inwardly scoffed. _Raised, indeed. Sure, Hell was a place; but it was also a state, and Dean's soul was still a void. He carried it with him everywhere he went._

Cas continued, "I showed you the truth about your brother's destiny, long in the making. Now it is time I showed you _your_ purpose, designed while you were being formed in your mother's womb."

Before Dean could respond, the angel touched his forehead and transported him into the past.

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><p><strong>AN: Is this something you guys would be interested in if I developed this? I just re-watched "In the Beginning" and wanted to read a fic exploring those themes, and I couldn't find one that suited it. I was so juiced up with muses from this episode and its dynamic that I just decided I had to write my own if there weren't any others. Please let me know if you liked it and would like more!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: All Credit to Kripke and crew!**

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><p><em>It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves. <em>

_~William Shakespeare_

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><p>A car whizzed by and Dean's leather jacket flapped in the wind created by the vehicles' velocity. The realization that he was in the middle of a highway hit him as he looked forward and was blinded by the lights of an oncoming car. Dean dove into the ditch in the nick of time. Sprawled out on the curb he watched the car fly by as its horn blared into the night. He raised his eyebrows as he pushed himself up on his elbows.<p>

"Yeah? Well you try transit by angel juice!" Dean shouted out in challenge to the diminishing shape of the car.

Dean had been trudging along the country highway for hours now. An occasional car would zoom past him, ignoring the hitchhiker hand held out in the familiar gesture for assistance. Dean swore inwardly when yet another car passed. He heard Sammy's voice in his head say, _they probably can't see you in the dark, anyway. They can't all be dicks. _

"Sammy!" Dean said aloud, slapping his palm to his forehead. His brother was probably worriedly scouring the earth for him at this moment. Little did Dean know that at this moment Sam was sleeping contentedly in the motel bed right where Dean had left him.

Dean looked up at the sky, at the million points of light glittering like diamonds in a dark sea. It was then that he knew without a doubt that he was in Kansas. He'd recognize the constellations and their angle in the sky any "time". He'd studied them for hours as a kid from his bedroom window in the old house—not that he'd ever let on to Sam about that. It was almost as if even back then, before the horror of the yellow-eyed demon descended upon the Winchesters, Dean had known something bigger than himself was out there. The wonder he'd felt as a child at things big, beautiful and unknown had turned to a hate of things supernatural, deadly and all too familiar as an adult. With one last, lingering look at the sky, Dean heaved a heavy sigh. It was beautiful, and no matter what threatened it, no matter who told him it was expendable, Dean would fight for it, fight for what was good. Off in the distance a light glowed out of a farmhouse window. The sight comforted Dean for a moment. As long as there was something worth fighting for, they'd win. Just then the light went out and the revival of hope died in his heart.

But he kept walking.

Weariness tugged at his knees and his eyelids drooped heavily. He opened his eyes wider. There was a car parked ahead on the side of the road. Its hood was up and a figure was hunched over the engine.

Dean approached the vehicle and gasped when he recognized its familiar curves and lines. The Impala. He stood still as the hunched figure looked up and the greasy face of John Winchester became visible in the glare of the car's headlights. John jerked at the unexpected sight of Dean and drew his pistol. Dean instinctually responded by throwing up his hands and disarming his dad in one fluid motion—just like John Winchester had taught him. John thrust a knee into his supposed attacker's gut and finished him with a powerful uppercut. Dean fell on his back breathless and dazed, opening his eyes to the barrel of a gun.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you to all the readers and reviewers! The better the response and the more reviews, the more motivated I will be for quick updates! (hint) ")**

**Disclaimer: All Credit to Kripke and Crew!**

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><p><em>Destiny and history are untidy.<em>

_~Djuna Barnes_

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><p><em>Chapter 3<em>

Dean fell on his back breathless and dazed, opening his eyes to the barrel of a gun.

"Who are you and what do you want?" John demanded.

Dean looked up into his father's young face. In this moment the son could see the warrior and battle hardened father present even before the influence of hunting and the nightmare of Azazel. Dean noticed something else, too. John didn't recognize him. Michael must have wiped away all previous memories of Dean's trips back in time. This might make things easier, actually, but it hurt Dean in an indescribable way to have his father's unknowing stare beat down on him. Dean wanted to reach out and touch and speak to his father from beyond the grave, thank him, make up for the exchanging of his own life for Dean's. But Dean couldn't speak to his father; he could only address John Winchester, former marine, newlywed and stranger.

"I said, WHO ARE YOU?" John shouted.

Dean jerked to attention at his Dad's tone. "Dean," he obeyed the command instinctually. It was eerie how the old habit died hard. Neither the span of years nor even the great chasm of death could change it: he still obeyed his father.

"Why did you attack me?" The gun was still trained on Dean's form.

"Uh, maybe because you drew a gun on me?" Dean retorted.

"You were gonna hijack my ride."

Dean smirked at that. "Actually, I was gonna see if you needed help. I'm handy with cars."

John narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Mechanic, huh? From the way you disarmed me there, I'd say more likely Special Forces."

Laughing at the irony of the comment Dean said, "Well, yes, I've had some training…from the best," he threw up a glance at his Dad, "and my work is kind of…specialized. But I'm also handy with cars." Dean added.

Contemplating what the man on the ground said, John lowered his gun.

"What are you doing out here on the highway in the middle of the night?"

Dean opened his mouth and closed it again, trying to come up with a believable answer.

"I'm off regular assignment for a spell, and I…um…"

"Just wandering until you go back into action?"

Dean nodded, "Time kinda got away from me…" He felt an unintentional smirk play across his lips.

John helped Dean off the ground and watched quietly as Dean brushed off his clothes.

"Nice jacket," John commented approvingly.

"Haha…yeah," Dean agreed as he saw his father was wearing the exact same leather coat—minus a few decades' wear.

"So how'd you end up out here at this time of night?" His father asked again.

"Well, I've been using less than standard modes of travel. You never know where or _when _you might get dropped off," Dean answered with meaningful emphasis.

John assumed Dean meant hitchhiking. "Well, if you can help get this baby running again," he patted the top of the Impala, "I can give you a lift. Unfortunately, there aren't any motels in between here and where I'm going, but I think I could put up a fellow soldier for the night."

Dean regarded his father with wonder. John Winchester was going to welcome a stranger (and a _strange_ stranger at that) into his home. The John he knew would never have shown that kind of trust or good will.

"Sure," Dean croaked, attempting to mask the emotion grabbing at his throat. "Let's see here."

Dean knew the Impala inside out. At this juncture he had more experience working on it than his Dad. He showed John what was wrong and how to fix it, earning the other man's respect. Dean shook his head when he realized his father had shown _him_ how to do that, yet Dean was now showing his _father_ how to do it in the past, so that meant in the _future_….he shook his head again. He'd leave that conundrum to Sammy.

The drive to the Winchester home was an interesting one to say the least. John seemed to sense the heavy weight and dark history of the man in the passenger seat, and didn't ask any questions. He simply cranked up the tunes and the men lost themselves in the music's power chords.

_My Dad's kind of awesome, _Dean thought. He almost forgot the tangled web of fate that had brought him here and he relaxed into the familiarity of the music, the car and…the company? Yes, the company, too. No matter when or where, his Dad as well as the aspect of his surroundings served to grant a sense of security long forgotten.

He awoke when the car stopped in the driveway. When had he fallen asleep? He must have been more tired than he thought. Angel transport, walking for three hours and grappling with your deceased yet soon to be Dad will do that to a guy.

"We're here," John stated. Dean looked up to the house and squinted at the porch light. He could see the figure of a woman through the screen door. He blinked and regarded the outline again. It was Mary Winchester, his mother, and he could clearly see the silhouette of her rounded stomach. Castiel's words resounded in his head,

_"Now it is time I showed you your purpose, designed while you were being formed in your mother's womb."_


	4. Chapter 4

_No man of woman born, coward or brave, can shun his destiny_

_~William Cullen Bryant_

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><p><strong>Chapter Warnings: Deals with disturbing hell themes, violence and torture worse than chapter 1.<strong>

Chap 4

Dean had watched in silence as the young couple, John and Mary Winchester, greeted each other with a loving kiss. John then bent down and pressed his face against his wife's stomach,

"Hey there, son." Mary smiled as John got up.

"This is Dean. He needs a place to sleep," John said by way of introduction.

Mary nodded instantly, needing no further explanation. She waved him into the kitchen and asked,

"Are you hungry?"

"Um…yeah…but don't…" He began, but Mary shushed him and went about making a sandwich.

John's mouth quirked into a grin and he said with a twinkling eye, "Don't question the Missus."

"Okay," Dean responded with a grin of his own. "Wouldn't think of it."

The three Winchester's sat around the table while Dean ate his sandwich.

"So you say you're in the military on leave and you're in Lawrence because you were born here and your mother…?"

"She died here," Dean answered. "House fire."

"I'm sorry," Mary consoled. John nodded to Dean in acknowledgement of his wife's statement.

"It's okay." Dean rasped. _This isn't weird at all,_ he thought.

Dean lay awake on the spare bed that night—which oddly was in the bedroom that would be his as a kid. The other bedroom was decked out as the nursery for the couple's first baby…for Dean, and later on would be the place where Azazel visited Sammy.

Too many memories were in the house that hadn't even happened yet, and that made it worse. It was as if he were waiting for the horrors to descend upon the home. Finally, however, the tryptophan in the turkey sandwich did its work and he dozed off.

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><p><em>"That's it, Dean. You're almost there, almossst one of usssss." Alastair's "s's" slithered sharply across his tongue as he enunciated the words affectionately.<em>

_Dean fell on all fours to the ground, choking out anguished sobs as he viewed the shredded mess of a soul on the rack. He'd done that. His face was red from the effort of holding the tears back; his veins bulged as he strove to suppress the torment of his soul._

_"Again, Dean." Alastair commanded, now cruelly._

_They'd been here before. Dean had repented the first time he'd tortured a soul, and had gone back to be tortured on the rack. Today, Alastair had brought him to the same girl, saying all the pain of the previous day was her fault. Dean had picked up the knife and begun carving again._

_"Well, Dean? What'll it be?" The demon said it like it was ordering off a menu._

_Dean stood up, seeing that the girl was magically whole once more. He raised the dagger and stuck the girl viciously, again and again._

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><p>"Noooo!" Dean awoke screaming, shooting up straight as a poker. He looked around him, coming to himself and remembering his location. He fell back down on the pillow panting and sweating. That was the worst dream yet. It was so vivid he thought he really was back in hell. He put a hand on his head and closed his eyes, not breathing as the darkness of the room closed in on him. Finally, he got up and went outside. It was dawn, and he could see the rising sun sharing the firmament with the waning moon in the brightening sky.<p>

He tried to lose himself and the terrors of the night in the sight and smell of the morning.

"You okay?" John's voice came from behind him. Dean jumped and his breath hitched, startled.

"Sorry," John amended.

"Yeah…" Dean croaked. The sound startled him. It sounded like it did in hell when he'd been screaming incessantly. Shuddering, Dean wondered how much he'd screamed last night. He hadn't before, or Sammy would've told him. Even in sleep, Dean usually kept himself and the horrors coiled inside of him contained.

"The war?" John asked unobtrusively.

Dean sighed. His Dad had heard him scream.

Mary made an appearance behind John's shoulder, worried eyes flitting from Dean to her husband.

The jig was up. They knew. But that didn't mean they had to know everything,

"My Mom," Dean began, "Guess being back in Lawrence jogged memories of her death in the fire."

Mary's eyes softened and she touched John's shoulder, as if expressing their shared consolation.

"I'll put on some coffee," She said. Dean couldn't help the small smile that played on his lips. He loved his Mom. All the comfort he needed was translated into her single look and the offer of a consoling cup of coffee. No questions or demands.

"It wasn't about your mother, was it? Your nightmare?" John asked when Mary was back in the house.

"Why?"

"Because if it were about your mom, a guy like you would never have admitted to it. I think you dreamt about something far worse."

_Can't get one past Dad even now,_ Dean thought.

"In the military, in my particular line of work…once, I went to a place…a place no one should go…" Dean stopped.

"You were captured," John supplied.

Dean licked his lips nervously…his Dad was getting just a little too close to the truth. He could read him like a book.

"Where I was imprisoned, the people…they…" Dean faltered, and then continued, "You realize it's possible for people to become worse than beasts. They get twisted and turned into something less than human, less than animal even, because they actually take pleasure in inflicting pain."

John nodded, "Yeah, it's true. I saw some things in the war. Saw men endure things..." He shook his head at the memories welling up. "But the human spirit is strong. Stronger I think than any evil…I mean, when you think about it, evil is nothing more than the absence of good, right?"

But that was what Dean what haunted Dean: Nothingness, the hole that pitted his soul. In hell he tried to escape the pain of the rack by willing himself to feel nothing. He'd tried heartlessly torturing victims when that had failed. But man cannot un-create himself. Try as he might he cannot destroy himself—his soul or his humanity. The most he can do is distort it, pervert it into something hideous. And that's what he had let Alastair do to himself. Dean opened himself wide until he was filled with nothingness, until he was empty of thought, emotion, and hope. That's when evil entered him and twisted him inside. That's when he'd laughed at the weeping bitch as he gutted her.

Alastair was different from the rest of the demons. Ruby and the others were once human and molded into monsters, but Alastair the white-eyed demon had started out as a Patriarch of the ancient followers of God, the equivalent today of a religious leader. Now he was the Master Torturer of Hell. Alastair had told Dean in his disgustingly intimate manner that the greatest saints can also be the greatest sinners. The greater potential a soul has for good, the greater also its potential for evil. That was why Dean was his favorite. His pet.

Dean's thoughts ran wild: What destiny could Castiel foresee in Dean? What could the man he now was—the broken, hollowed out soul—have anything to do with the innocent unborn child his mother carried? What had he been brought here to see?

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><p><strong>AN: So a rather dark chapter...hmnn. What did you think? I wanted to show the stark contrast of the beauty and love in the life around Dean and what he carried inside. It also sets the stage for the discovery his destiny. Please leave your comments! They spur me on to write harder, quicker and better. Thanks!**


	5. Chapter 5

_A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it._

_~Jean de la Fontaine_

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><p>Dean started working at John Winchester's garage. His dad was impressed with Dean's mechanic abilities and had offered him a job and a bunk in the back office of the garage. A couple of days went by. Dean usually ate dinner at the Winchester's and became reacquainted with his mother's pie. He remembered why he loved the dessert so much. It wasn't that his mother's pie had been exceptionally good. Eating it again after so long t, he knew it was the familiarity of its taste and smell. It was the love with which it was prepared. Every slice of pie Dean ate after his mother's death was an attempt to reclaim something of what he'd lost in that fire.<p>

It was strange to spend so much time with John and Mary and never tell them who he really was. But he couldn't possibly do that. He was here to discover his destiny, whatever that was, and if he hung around the Winchesters, something was bound to surface. It always did.

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and Dean was on the porch contentedly sitting in a rocker, watching the sun get lower in the sky. He started thinking to himself that he wouldn't mind being stuck here in the past. He could change everything; forge a new destiny for his family. But deep down Dean knew better—knew he didn't deserve a life of peace and contentment. As he dozed in the failing light, the sun's setting rays glowed orange under his closed lids. His eyes darted back and forth as the orange glow of the sunset morphed into the burning glow of sulfur, and the bird calls became frenzied shrieks of agony and sinful delight.

Dean awoke to the sight of Mary's face. She put a hand on his cheek and gently slapped him one more time when he stared at her with unseeing eyes.

"Dean? You with me?" Mary's eyes were soft, but they were also hardened into a serious gaze. It felt as though she were seeing into his very depths. He shied away from the penetration, ashamed. The motion didn't go unnoticed. Mary only looked harder at him. The look demanded irrefutably, yet gently, "Tell me."

"What's that for?" Mary asked when Dean stood up and walked into the living room to get as far away from her touch and gaze as possible.

"Sorry," Dean said.

"You know I'm no stranger to stories of war. You can tell me."

Risking another glance at his mother Dean said, "It's just, you remind me of my mother…and…the things I've done in my life, in my job… I picture my mom looking at me and seeing what's inside…" He sat down on the couch, desolate, "there's no forgiveness for someone like me."

"Dean." Mary put her hand on his cheek and forced him to look her in the face—meet her sapphire eyes filled with motherly tenderness. "I don't know all the things you've done, but I do know better than most about the evil that exists. I also know that although there is great evil, unconditional love is stronger. Now, I cannot speak for her, but I can tell you that no matter what my son (she placed a gentle hand over the bulge in her middle) did, _nothing _could make me stop loving him."

That was too much for Dean. The walls broke down around him and the floodwaters burst through. Shuddering sobs shook his body as his mother wrapped her arms around him, and she stroked the back of his neck, whispered comforting phrases into his ear.

He wept until there were no more tears, until he felt a pain keen through his soul like a sharp knife. It was hope—hope of forgiveness, of atonement, for redemption. Suddenly there was a crash outside.

Dean pulled himself together and told Mary to stay inside—he would check it out. He stepped outside and instantly felt himself being grabbed by the coat and shoved into the wall of the house, his head banging against the paneling.

Once the buzzing ceased in his ears and the spots quit dancing in front of his eyes, Dean viewed his attackers. Angels. There was no mistaking the superior stance and just plain douche-baggy attitudes. What Dean saw next startled him, however. It was John, but not John. It was Michael in his Dad's skin.

"Hello, Dean. It's time."

"Nah, uh, I don't think so, princeling. You still need my say-so! How did you con my Dad into it this time?"

"Oh, this is not your father. I merely take on the appearance of my last vessel, when I am without one. Most men wouldn't be able to see me as you do in this form. What they would behold would kill them."

"Guess maybe you're just not all your cracked up to be." Dean retorted.

"No, that's not it," Michael said patiently, "It's because of you, Dean. It's because it's time to fulfill your destiny."

"I don't believe in destiny. You can't _make _me do anything. Remember that whole free-will thing your Father came up with? Come to think of it, I should probably thank him for that. Might be the one thing I'm grateful for."

"There are ways around it," Michael said, directing Dean's attention to the window. Dean followed the angel's gaze and saw his mother through the darkened window.

A light descended upon the room and over Mary's head. The language the glowing light emanated was no earthly tongue, but consisted of melodious notes with heavenly quality, yet Dean understood it.

"Who…? Who are you?" Mary quaked.

"I am an angel of the Lord." Dean's mother fell to her knees. Michael had visited Mary with a sweet presence throughout her pregnancy—and though she recognized his presence she hadn't known who it was. Mary believed in angels (but she didn't know why she was convinced of their existence because she didn't remember the last time angels came to call). Angels were the only supernatural thing still sacred to her. She trusted and prayed that they would protect those whom she loved.

"What do you want?"

"In a few years a demon will come to your home to be paid back a debt—a debt you took on to save your husband. At that time your son will be in danger."

Mary looked down at the child in her womb and distress filled her eyes.

"I can save your son, but it will require a great sacrifice."

"I will do anything!" Mary accepted readily. She'd already put her trust in a demon to save John. Could a mother do less for her child? This was an angel, after all. Could Michael want something worse than Azazel? Impossible. He was an angel and angels were good.

"I will call on your son and ask something of him when it is time."

"What will you ask of him?"

"To show his devotion to me, as you do. In return, I will also bestow upon him a great honor."

"Yes, anything to stop the demon."

"So you accept this responsibility in the name of your son? As his mother and guardian you entrust him to me?"

"Yes."

With that the presence disappeared and left Mary alone kneeling on the wooden floor.

Dean's gaze shifted from the window and he looked at Michael in disbelief.

Michael laughed, "Did you really think I would let the fate of the world hang on the chance of gaining your stubborn consent? What the world requires now is sacrifice. Your mother was willing to do what was necessary. Are you? "

"She didn't know! She thought she was_ saving_ _me_! She wouldn't have sacrificed one son for another if she'd known the truth."

"Are you so sure, Dean? After what you did in Hell?" Michael clucked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "You're more of a devil than Sammy ever was, even with the demon blood in his veins."

Dean swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He closed his eyes tightly, attempting to recall his mother's arms around him, her words of assurance. Instead, he saw Alastair's face grinning in approval as Dean raked instruments of torture across the body of the soul before him. Dean opened his eyes widely, desperation and despair running ubiquitously over his face.

"Then why would you want someone like me for a vessel?" Dean's voice was muted and yet rang with the knell of defeat.

"I'm an archangel, Dean. There's enough grace in me to make up for what is lacking. You are nothing more than a broken shell of a man. I can fill it." Michael smiled. "I was going to try to obtain your consent, you know—even though Mary gave it in your stead."

Dean looked up, his eyes dead and his face expressionless.

Michael continued, "It makes the process so much easier and…less painful for the vessel. Not that that really matters, but I find the vessel's suffering highly irritating—much like an itch. But, no matter. You are so broken and defeated it will be a 'cakewalk', as you say."

Michael's form transmuted into a terrifyingly bright light and engulfed Dean's being. It…HE was inside of him. Dean could feel Michael in his head; feel his own thoughts being stolen from him as the angel usurped his body and mind. Every private feeling, thought and action of Dean's life was being ripped open and laid bare under the angel's inspection.

A scream tore from Dean's throat as the process reached its climax. White light shot from his eyes, nose, ears and mouth as his scream increased in volume and pitch.

Then it stopped.

Michael raised Dean's head, rolled his neck in attempt to familiarize himself with the vessel, and walked off into the night with a regal gait foreign to Dean's body.


End file.
